


Baby's First Grenade

by halfabagoffritos



Series: Hashtag Ohana [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabagoffritos/pseuds/halfabagoffritos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold Finch hates babysitting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby's First Grenade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kesdax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesdax/gifts).



> Kesdax likes tormenting me with prompts and one-hour deadlines apparently - "BABY’S FIRST GRENADE. ONE HOUR. GO"
> 
> (Root/Shaw referenced near the end.)
> 
> (A continuation of the universe established in Unfortunate Timing.)

_Miss Shaw, I implore you to return immediately!_

The text glares up at her and Shaw groans the entire shadow mapped path to the subway, her favorite pastrami sandwich — one bite taken — in tow.

As she clomps down the stairs and through the gate, she’s greeted by a high-pitched giggle and Finch furiously stammering, “N-No, don’t touch that!”

Shaw huffs a laugh, lips ever so slightly upturned, and she rounds a corner to find Ris toddling away from Finch as fast as her little legs will carry her, one of Reese’s grenades clutched firmly in both hands, with Finch hobbling after closely behind.

"Little Parisa, please put that down!" he yells, then sighs as she ducks just out of grasp yet again.

Shaw sets her sandwich bag down on the cot and approaches. “Problem, Finch?” she says with barely contained mirth.

He stops and turns nearly bugged eyes to her. “I told you before you left, Miss Shaw, that I’m not a babysitter!”

"I wasn’t even gone ten minutes!" she grouses, amusement fading quickly. "And it’s not like she even knows how to pull the pin." Shaw feels a tug on her pants leg and looks down to find Ris’s gap-toothed grin and an outstretched hand trying to give her the explosive. She reaches down and takes it with a pat on Ris’s thick black hair. "See?" she says, flipping it into the air and catching it again easily. "Crisis averted."

Finch just wipes the sweat from his brown and collapses into his desk chair. “Perhaps we can make sure our weaponry stays locked away in the future.”

"Hey, this wasn’t even mine," Shaw mutters as she slips over to one of the lockers and tosses it inside. "Maybe save that speech for Reese."

Finch taps away at his keyboard. “Be that as it may,” he says as his monitors fill with photos and information on some woman, “it’s time we all sat down and had a thorough discussion on toddler safety.”

Shaw ignores him and leans against the desk to look over the data he’s pulling. “New number?”

"Yes, and one that surely Mr. Reese can handle all on his own."

Shaw darts a glare at him . “You’re sidelining me because the kid got into Reese’s hand grenades? Not cool.”

"I’m not sidelining you, Miss Shaw," Finch says as he swivels in his chair to face her, "but we all agreed when Parisa was born that we’d take turns watching her while the rest work on the mission."

Shaw throws her hands in the air and walks over to fling herself onto the cot. “Yeah, and it’s supposed to be Root’s turn,” she grumbles. “Where the hell is she, anyway?”

Finch pushes his glasses back up on his nose, then turns back to the monitors. “I’m sure the Machine has her on an errand of great import for her to be out of contact this long.” The subway grows quiet at that, save for the sound of Finch typing away.

After a moment of yelling at Root in her head, and solemn promises to withhold pretty much  _everything_  — for at least a day; she has her own needs after all — upon Root’s return, Shaw jerks upright. “Where the hell’s my sandwich?”

From elsewhere in the subway, she hears tinny giggling and the crinkling of a bag being opened.


End file.
